


Virtuoso

by plastiq



Category: The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-25 16:51:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/641050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plastiq/pseuds/plastiq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At first glance, it’s hard to see Dwalin as a musician.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Virtuoso

At first glance, it’s hard to see Dwalin as a musician. 

It is harder still to see him as a violinist. 

(How a dwarf of his size manages to place each digit, brawny and thick like the rest of him, with such deadly precision Thorin will never know.) 

Only after one has seen the dexterity of his fingers, has heard Dwalin coax music out of the instrument, has felt each individual note wrap around the body from the toes to the hips to the ears can one begin to accept the fact that yes, Dwalin is quite the fiddler. 

Yet Thorin is mildly taken aback every time his friend performs, the image of the powerful warrior wielding his war axe overlapping with that of the virtuosic musician cradling the four-stringed chest that contains voice of his soul. He knows that he of all people shouldn’t think this way; he himself plays the harp. The same odd juxtaposition lies in him as well. 

Still, it’s really only when Dwalin plays him like an instrument that Thorin fully comprehends: 

Dwalin is a master violinist. 

***  
(Études) 

As any serious musician must, Dwalin never goes long without practice. He would prefer daily sessions, but alas, time is not on his side. 

(nor is Thorin’s rate of recovery.) 

So he warms up whenever he can, sneaking a few strokes here, a few strokes there. His hands fly up and down the length of Thorin’s body, pressing and pressing and pressing. Initially, they are just a bit out of sync, not fully warmed up yet. Dwalin’s fingers miss the spots that make Thorin cry out and Thorin, in turn, bites his lower lip and attempts to keep the noise to a minimum. 

All the more reason to practice regularly, Dwalin thinks. 

He doesn’t give up, no, the imperfections driving him harder to find those sensitive places. When a well-placed finger on the neck draws out a reluctant, guttural sound, Dwalin smirks. 

His instrument has finally spoken. 

***

(Mvmt 1: Allegro con Spirito)

Dwalin is always pleased whenever there are more than a few odd minutes to lavish his instrument with attention; as a result, he plays with vigor, his grip sure and strong and fast. 

Thorin absolutely loves this, loves when Dwalin yanks him behind the corner of a building or a tree, his mouth hot on Thorin’s ear and his hands roaming even before they’re fully under cover. 

They’re both panting within moments, Thorin’s backside against Dwalin’s crotch, rutting like animals. The king in Thorin would protest, but Dwalin’s enthusiasm is catching, and frankly, he doesn’t have the breath to speak. 

Soon enough, Dwalin’s clever fingers unclasp his belt and once they shove down Thorin’s pants to his knees, they bury themselves in Thorin’s ass. At the same time, another hand grabs his cock and pull. 

It’s quick, but it’s methodical. There’s a definite rhythm to it and Thorin feels a bit like a bow being rosined in preparation for upcoming extensive use. 

In either case, something long and hard will end up covered in something white and sticky. 

And then Thorin comes. 

***

(Mvmt 2: Largo)

Dwalin’s passion makes for a fast pace, but that’s not to say that he can’t take it slow.

No, Dwalin has the patience of a god. He likes to take his time entering Thorin, in one long fluid motion, inch by painstaking inch. 

Thorin wants to push, wants to reach back and yank on Dwalin’s stupid beard, telling him to _movemovemovebyAulëmove_. The iron grip on his hips say _no_. 

Because Dwalin is aware of the grief and hatred that have lodged in his King’s heart. He wants to quiet the whispers that tell Thorin he hasn’t tried hard enough, he will never _be_ enough. They drive him to near madness and Thorin is always agitated, always pushing himself to the limit. 

So he trains him.

Like a violin whose properties are modified according to the player’s style with the passage of time, Thorin, too, is slowly adjusted. 

***

(Mvmt 3: Prestissimo) 

Each time, Thorin manages to somehow endure minutes of Dwalin not doing fucking _anything_. Sometimes that rough patch will be relatively short, but other times it’ll last for what seems to be centuries. Those times try Thorin’s mental strength and Thorin usually ends up getting his arse smacked as if he were a wayward dwarfling. 

But as with all trials, it does eventually come to a close. (Thorin can only hope that his people’s hardship will end as well.)

And once it ends, Dwalin picks the speed right back up again. He sets a punishing pace, hips snapping faster and faster until the notes wrenched from Thorin’s throat blend into one another. 

When they approach the last few measures, Thorin’s cries crescendo into screams and though his sound takes on a rougher quality. He rather likes it that way, Dwalin thinks. They accelerando, rushing a little too much in their haste. 

On the last note, they come simultaneously. For how long it lasts, Thorin swears there must be a fermata hanging over their heads. 

Though they’re both sweaty and tired, Dwalin never fails to clean Thorin up afterwards, even scraping his semen out of Thorin’s used body with a crooked finger, because Dwalin is a master violinist and he takes care of his instruments.


End file.
